


What Is Left

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, King Duncan!Jon, Marriage Contracts, Marriage of Convenience, Other, Queen Mother!Lyanna, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lyanna Stark traded her betrothed up for an Iron Throne and the de facto queenship of an entire realm filled with subjects vying to fill the void of power the death of the Silver Prince left behind. Crowned at the side of an infant son for fear of the crushing manpower promises to great houses have gathered, she rules summer days unnumbered after the bitter winter.</p><p>But as her child grows, disputes bloom like roses all around in the Queen's court and her attention turns to Essos for help. Whispers reach her of a dragonling and his gathering supporters and from within Prince Viserys works upon gathering his own.</p><p>AU! Mother, queen and lover - in that order - the she-wolf of Winterfell tries to piece together  the shattered realm she has knowingly broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Left

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, looked at the woman before him as if she’d sprouted a second head and another pair of arms. Wylla, however, levelled him a cool, collected stare, hands on her hips, waiting for a reply to her demand. Or rather to Lyanna Stark’s.

“Well, which one of you will brave the birthing chamber?” the tanned midwife questioned without an ounce of sympathy for the Bull who looked ready to sway right off his feet and Whent who looked rather pale. “Come now, m’lady’s patience is threadbare a thing.”

As it should be. Arthur did not imagine any woman might labour all those long hours without losing any ounce of patience stored away. With a sigh, he stood to his feet and silently cursed it all. He thought about his friend lying in a watery grave and about the girl in the tower who had told the Prince, like any self-respecting queen to be, that if he dared return to her on his shield she would personally see to it that his afterlife was filled with misery.

_(“You will come back,” Lyanna Stark seethed, tying the layer of protective leather around Rhaegar’s hand and wrist. “You will come back here and tell me exactly how you’ve dealt with the man that calls himself our King.”_

_Rhaegar had looked at her half in wonder, half in consternation. Lyanna had clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Don’t carry on so. I am hardly asking you to spear the man. But I am asking for retribution.”_

_He gave her a nod, but spoke not the words._

_“I have not given you my hand for nothing, I hope.” She pulled back to admire her work. “Be the man I know you to be.”)_

She had not been merely angered to hear of her brother’s death. She had been despondent, furious and inconsolable. Arthur had heard their argument because he was the one on guarding duty when Rhaegar had told her. That had been a storm.

Now came another storm. They’d not spoken of it because, none of them. Gerold Hightower had wanted to tell her, but Arthur had stopped him. She had already lost her brother and father, stood to lose another in the war and was utterly alone for all she cared to know. They could not simply say to her that Rhaegar had fallen as well. Lyanna Stark, for whatever reason, clung to her own hopes of dragon princes. It would not do anyone any good to rip that from her.

“Well, ser, are you coming or are we waiting for the sun to set together?” Wylla broke him out of his mediation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red-faced, exhausted and more than a tad harried, Lyanna glared at the Kingsguard with all the rage accumulated. The midwife’s helper carried a small ewer of water and nudged Arthur gently. He looked as if they were leading him to slaughter. Lyanna refrained from making any comment, mainly because unclenching her teeth would mean dropping the cloth she held between them and that could only result in horrifying wailing or cracked teeth.

Holding out her hand in silent demand she cursed at her absent husband for being so very late. And at the same time she did truly wish for Rhaegar. Alas she would have to make do with Arthur Dayne. Her trembling fingers clutched at his big callused hand. There was some comfort in it, she reckoned. Lyanna supposed she’d just wanted a person who was not a complete stranger.

_(“You had better return,” she’d said to him, one hand resting on her slightly rounded middle. “If you leave this debt unpaid, you will regret it.” Her promise was met with a small, tentative smile. Lyanna frowned. The blade of the knife danced across his skin. “Don’t move.” The hand she’d been keeping against her stomach lifted to cup one side of his face and keep him still. She might accidentally cut his throat and that would truly leave her stranded._

_Thankfully, he kept still. Lyanna finished shaving him and pulled the knife back. “There, that should do.” She allowed his arms to linger around her in a loose embrace. The she-wolf looked down between them at the protruding shape. “What if this isn’t your Visenya?” she asked, quite suddenly at that._

_Her concern was met with a blink of confusion. “Well,” Rhaegar began, taking the knife away from her and putting it on the table, “I cannot name the child Viserys. My brother has already been given that name. I suppose we ought to consider Baelor or Gaemon. Not Aegon either, of course.”_ _The reminder of his fist wife lingered between them awkwardly._

_But she became herself quick enough. “Or Duncan,” Lyanna offered, testing the name upon her tonhue._

_“Or Duncan,” Rhaegar agreed._

_“So you shan’t be cross if this is not Visenya?” How curious. He spoke with such certainty of the prophecy._

_“I should be devastated, but I daresay I will live through it like many have before me.” Targaryens had a fondness for that particular piece of prophetic discourse. She would not put it past them to be let down by their children quite frequently upon discovering that the awaited prince had not arrived. When Lyanna lifted her head she was not entirely surprised to find understanding in his face however. “The best we can do is hope. As for this child, I will love him or her, whatever the outcome.”_

_There were times when Lyanna did not understand the man.)_

Of course, she might have felt ten times the better for it had she been actually crushing Rhaegar’s bones. The gods knew he deserved it. He’d left her all alone, abandoning all promise of a swift return and all she had had from him were a few hastily scribbled words.

“M’lady, you must push,” Wylla’s sharp instruction jarred her. Lyanna made a sound in the back of her throat, the words muffled. “Push.”

She wanted to tell her that she was pushing, gods damn it. It was certainly no fault of hers the child took after the father and was stubborn as a mule. In fact, the more she struggled to bring forth the babae; the more convinced she became of the fact. And she pushed and pushed again. She felt close to expiring. Alas, that fate was not for her.

How she succeeded, Lyanna would never manage to piece together. All she knew was that one moment her ears were ringing with pain and the next shrill, displeasured cries were coming from a tiny, bloody lump that looked vaguely human in shape.

Wylla groused something about strong lungs, but Lyanna was much too preoccupied with the child to pay her any mind. She let go of Arthur’s hand, much to his relief, she was certain, and raised herself on unsteady elbows. “’Tis a son,” the midwife said. “A healthy son.”

Lyanna half heard the relieved sigh of Arthur Dayne as she threw away the cloth she’d kept clenched between her teeth to muffle the pain. She struggled to sit up properly. “Give him to me. Give me my son.” The child was placed in her arms.

Peering down into the small, red face with wrinkled skin, a sob caught in Lyanna’s throat. He was most definitely a Duncan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

_(Ned shook his head at her antics and pursed his lips. “You are entirely too harsh on the man. Give him a chance, Lya.”_

_“A friend and a husband are two very different roles. Suitability in case of one does not necessarily imply suitability for the other,” Lyanna replied, cutting a rose from the bush and adding it to the small bunch she’d already gathered._

_“You would suit,” he told her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Lyanna looked up at him. “Storm’s End would be a good ally as well. Father only wants what is best.”_

_“Then I suppose he ought to wed you to one of Lord Frey’s daughters so we might have the manpower to go with these grand keeps,” she snapped, standing to her full height and brushing his hand off._

_“Will nothing please you?” he finally snapped at her, crossly taking her by the shoulder and forcing her to face him._

_Grimacing, the sister shook her head. “Not if it has anything to do with that man.”)_

Ned looked at the bodies, bile rising in his throat. The babe’s skull had been crushed, the little girl did not have even an inch of skin without a laceration. Princess Elia he could not even bear to glance at for more than a few seconds. And Robert stood there, looking in triumph at the carnage.

“This is preposterous,” Ned hissed at him, taking Robert by the shoulder. “They were innocents.”

“Dragon spawn,” Robert spat.

It struck Ned, in a moment of clarity, that his sister’s eyesight had been better than his. “We made war upon a mad king. Not upon women and children.” He could feel the blood draining from his face. Fingers clenching instinctively around Ice, Ned considered, for one wild moment, ending the dispute with steel.

But he could not. Too strong was his friendship with the man. Instead, he turned around and washed his hands of the scheme. He would have no part of it.

Jon Arryn followed him outside, trying to halt his departure. “Eddard, go no further. We must speak.”

“I do not wish to speak,” Ned said over his shoulder. “Is this what we fought for?”

“My Elbert is dead.” The words did make Eddard stop. He turned to look at Jon Arryn. “Your brother is dead. Your sister–“

“I know my brother and sister better than you, my lord. If Brandon is dead it is because his words were treason.” Everyone had spoken of it, the way the gallant fool claimed loud and clear that he would kill the Crown Prince. Of course the King would have retaliated. Understanding in no way lessened the pain. But Ned was not yet so deluded as to cast shadows where none would fit. “I fought to avenge my father and wash away the dishonour of his execution. As for my sister, I shall find out soon enough from her own mouth what has happened.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The eunuch gave him a wary glance. Bound as he was, there was little he could do to protect himself. “And why should I tell you anything, Lord Stark?” he addressed the youth before him.

“If you value your life, you shall tell me,” Ned replied, sitting down in a chair. “Where did he take my sister?”

Varys smiled. “I daresay pursuing her is in no one’s interest. You saw what happened to Princess Elia’s babes.”

_(His sister laughed at the impudence of their younger brother, pouring her wine over the boy’s head with a sort of viciousness that gave him pause. “She cries and then she laughs,” he muttered to Brandon who was eyeing a smiling Ashara Dayne._

_“Leave her be, Ned. Women have cried for less.” Brandon looked at her though for long enough to quell the offensive behavior. She’d settled down in her seat, the empty cup held still in her hands, a pout on her lips._

_Why had Ned not noticed the Silver Prince looking at her in that moment, just as his own head had turned?)_

“Any man who tries to harm even a hair on my sister’s head will have a taste of my steel.” Be he more dearer to him than a brother. Gone was the boy who’d donned too big an armour and rode to conquer victory for honour. Nay, before him stood a man.

“She was willing.” The words did not produce the surprise the Spider had expected. Eddard Stark gave him a hard look. “It is likely she bore him a child. He told me as much. It seems you have a choice, my lord. And not an easy one.” The bald one paused. “What will it be?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jaime Lannister drew his sword at the advancing man, having yet to forget the thunderous way in which he’d nearly met his end. But Eddard Stark simply gave him an icy stare. “Put that away,” he ordered. “I am surprised they still allow you to have a weapon.”

Blushing violently at the insult, Jaime barely managed to keep his temper in check. “Lord Stark,” he gritted out. “What could I possibly do for you?” What was the worse he could ask, after all. He was already the Kingslayer without an ounce of honour.

“Why did you do it?”

No one had asked him. They had pointed fingers and accused him, over the corpse of the King. But no one had asked him to speak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

She screeched like a banshee, waking the child from his slumber and setting him to weeping. “How dare you?” Lyanna cried, trying to sit up from her bed. Alas, the birthing had left her too weak for such movement. The midwife turned wet-nurse feared she might have grown feverish. Arthur did not think it the case with the way she yelled. Nay; that was a woman fully angered, not a delirious bloodless creature. “I had the right to know.”

Duncan wept louder, causing Lyanna’s head to snap towards him. “Give me my son,” she ordered to Wylla. The woman, who did not seem like she wished to be part of what would surely follow, scurried to comply to the order and then be about. Lyanna cradled the child to her bosom and tried to shush him. But Duncan would not be deterred. It seemed the loss was as clear to him as it was to her.

“There is more, I fear,” Arthur continued. “Robert Baratheon, through sporting minor wounds at the Trident, we have been told, has managed to make for King’s Landing. The city was sacked. The royal family was slaughtered.”

“It cannot be.” The shock on her features was short-lived. Her breathing grew irregular. Arthur recognised the signs of panic. He strode towards her. “My Duncan. You have to save my son.” A mother’s heart was ever to her children. “By rights he is your King.” The argument rang loud in the cavernous chamber.

“I swore to his father that if anything were to happen to him, I would not shirk my duty to you and the child, my lady. The Kingsguard stands by the true King.” The mother clutched her babe. Duncan fussed in her hold. “No one will being you harm, my lady.”

“I fear no harm coming my way, yet there is just three of you, ser. Formidable as I know you to be, I much doubt with so small a force we shall manage much by way of defense.” Luminous eyes shone with unshed tears.

“Then we shall die trying,” a voice spoke from the doorway. Ser Gerold nodded his head. The Bull stared her down, as if challenging her to repeat those very words of doubt. She did not.

Behind him Oswell Whent blinked slowly, as if in agreement. “Though the joy has fled this place, my lady, for ‘tis a fleeting, perverse sort of feeling, loyalty has remained.”

Over the next few days, preparations were made. Lyanna, though hardly able to rest well and forever keeping watch on her son lest any ill befall him, managed to oversee much of it. Much to the displeasure of the three men who continuously exercised their ability to drive her up walls.

It was on the fourth day that Eddard Stark arrived, accompanied by men unknown to any of the Kingsguard’s members.

Lyanna, seeing her brother, recognised him immediately; as well a sister should, in spite of the length of time during which they’d been separated. She climbed to her feet, clutching Duncan close to her and stepped behind Ser Whent, as if to use him for her shield.

But Eddard Stark hardly looked like he might wish to harm her. Instead, a travel-weary man stared with hardened eyes towards an equally emotionally worn woman.

“What manner of greeting is this, sister?” he demanded of her, dismounting with slow movements. The rest of his company followed suit. “I am your own brother.” His eyes moved to the bundle she protected so.

“Are you truly?” Lyanna questioned, shifting the weight in her arms gently. “Why should I trust that I will be receiving any better treatment than poor Princess Elia and her children?”

“Because ‘twas Tywin Lannister who gave orders to slay them,” a new voice cut in. Arthur recognised the person immediately. Though covered, in a brown cloak with the hood drawn, it was unmistakably Jaime Lannister that spoke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna poured the wine with a careful hand, watching like a hawk the way in which her brother handled her Duncan. “No words, brother mine? Nothing at all?”

“What can I possibly say at this point?” If the child lived, and by the healthy lungs and rosy complexion it would, then Varys had been right and the dragons still ruled. “Were you happy with him?”

His sister made a small sound in the back of her throat. “He called this the Tower of Joy, do you know?” Duncan gurgled and squirmed in his uncle’s hold. “Is there anything left of the army?”

“Enough for the scheme to work,” came the assurance. “I did not know, Lya. I did not know what to think. I had hoped, foolishly, that it would be easy.”

“It never is.” She placed the cup before him and took her son back. “Ser Dayne, you needn’t stand there, you know?” she asked of the man in the doorway. “My brother won’t begrudge you a cup of wine, I am certain.”

“Why Duncan?” Ned sprang the question on his sister suddenly. “It does not seem like something a Targaryen would choose.”

“Because he is not Visenya and Viserys is already taken.” Lyanna’s nose wrinkled. “You believe Lord Tully would join you?”

“His daughter is my wife.” The woman he had left in Riverrun. Ned sighed. His wife, and he barely even knew her.

“His other daughter is wife to Lord Arryn,” Lyanna pointed out, rocking Duncan gently back and forth.

“And Lord Arryn has avenged his heir and likely, if the gods are good, his wife shall give him another. I fought a madman, Lyanna.” How cumbersome the excuse had grown. Ned was well-aware that, should he have asked her properly, Lyanna would have spoken of it to him. “Pycelle is an obstacle, I grant you, but Varys shall sort it out.”

“And the Reach?” Possibly the strongest force, to Ned’s mind, they had supported Aerys, many of them. “Would there be anything that might tempt them to our side?”

“There might. Mace Tyrell has had a daughter born to him at the beginning of the year.” Lyanna looked at Ser Dayne. His words were her son’s chance, she understood. “That leaves the Baratheons and the Lannisters. Mayhap Stannis can be worked upon, but Tywin Lannister will not budge.”

“Not even for his son, do you think?” Ned enquired. “It might win us Dorne as well. Revenge is as good a motivator as any.”

“Doran Martell is not hasty and much better at concealing his thoughts than his brother, but he would not refuse a chance if given one,” Arthur offered. “As for Lord Lannister, it would be best if we were swift. The man can smell a plot better than any hound can find prey.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna tied the string around her middle and tried not to feel irritated by the uncomfortable feeling of roughspun scraping against her skin. Wylla was busy hiding her hair out of sight, beneath a layer of pristine cloth. “Your skin is too white and soft, m’lady, but there is nothing for it. Keep your head down and all should be well.”

She and Duncan were to ride in the cart along with Wylla. According to Ned, they should not have much trouble. The Lord Commander had vouched for their destination, claiming that Lord Hightower had a good head on his shoulders. “He is my nephew, Your Grace,” he’d told Lyanna addressing her formally. He’d been the first one to do it and the others had followed along.

“I shall, worry not,” Lyanna replied to the earlier instructions. “I’ve no desire to be peeling skin off later.” The blasted Dornish sun would undoubtedly do irreparable damage were she without attention. In her arms the babe was placed carefully by Oswell Whent.

“He sleeps like a rock,” the Kingsguard offered quietly. “I doubt an invading horde of Dothraki screamers could wake him.”

“Let us not put your theory to the test,” Lyanna replied with a worn smile.

_(The width of the cloak could have been wrapped twice around her, she considered, as her eyes fell to the burnt offerings. The drunken septon took another swing of his ale, pleased with his payment._

_Rhaegar unlaced the ribbon tied around their wrists._

_“Shall we go, sweet Queen of mine?”_

_“As swift as the summer gale,” she’d chuckled.)_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
